


Smooth Operator

by AwariaSuit



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Cuddling to Fucking, Humor, M/M, Porn With Conversations, Snark, that's it that's the tags, untitled goose reference thrown in for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwariaSuit/pseuds/AwariaSuit
Summary: He's not going to make him walk all the way back to his dormitory in the cold and the dark and the rain...... is he?
Relationships: Aleksandr Akimov/Leonid Toptunov
Comments: 13
Kudos: 23





	Smooth Operator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AZ-5 (elim_garak)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/gifts).



> [Prompt](https://az-5-elimgarak.tumblr.com/post/187902893347/ao3tagoftheday-the-ao3-tag-of-the-day-is-thats).

— Come on, let's go.

Akimov's elbow and right hand are casually planted on the table, fingers drumming with impatience. His left, outside of his companions' view, falls to Toptunov's knee. _Warm_.

— One more — Leonid pleads. — One more song.

— You said the same, five songs ago.

Toptunov reaches for Sasha's hand, but thinks better of it. Instead he raises his index finger. 

— But this time, _for real_.

Leonid's voice is earnest, if a bit too emphatic. His gaze wanders, typical for someone who has been partaking from the vast array of bottles clustered on the battlefield that is their table. 

Akimov shifts in his seat, breaking their wavering eye contact. 

On the opposite side of the table, Kirschenbaum devotes what is left of his concentration to the delicate art of tearing labels off of the empties. The results of his other surgeries are stacked in a pile next to the ashtray. 

Seated next to him, Stolyarchuk sways — almost imperceptibly — to the music, every now and then glancing at his companions with a smirk half-hidden behind his mustache and intertwined fingers. 

Proskuryakov and Kudryavtsev had the good sense to scurry back to their dormitory over an hour ago.

Sasha turns back to Leonid. 

Once again he is caught by what look like flickers of firelight in Toptunov's eyes. In fact, everything about him is lit up in some way. His cheeks are glistening beneath the floating swirls of cigarette smoke. Must be a trick of the lighting, Akimov decides. 

The moment is broken by Toptunov's inner earthquake. _Oh no_.

_Not the hiccups, again _.__

— Drink some water. — Akimov tells him, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. He then moves to stand up as if to break away from their alcohol-fueled blissful stupor. The chair scrapes over dust and dirt on the floor. 

Leonid obeys, without an argument this time. He tips the glass over, eagerly, a bit too far. A tiny rivulet runs down his right cheek, the one that's — thankfully — not facing the others. He doesn't seem to notice.

But Sasha does. 

Leonid lapping up water in gulps, chin raised, eyes closed. The image becomes seared into Sasha's mind. 

— Slow down. — He tells him, as much as he tells himself.

— Mm-hmm. 

With a dull _thud_ the empty glass makes its way back onto the table. _See?_ Toptunov takes a deep breath, looks up, and wipes his mouth with his shirtsleeve.

— The danger of hiccups — he pauses for dramatic effect — is behind me.

— But is it? Is it _really?_

Kirschenbaum has reached that point in their evening libation where his only contributions to the conversation arrive in the form of questions. This particular set is delivered with the gravitas of a philosopher contemplating an axiom. 

— Let us go then.

There is now an undercurrent of impatience beneath Sasha's placid tone.

— Wait-wait. — Toptunov cocks his head. 

After a moment of intense concentration, he begins to nod to a beat that only he can hear over the din of nearby conversations. 

Then his face breaks into a smile.

— _Smooth operatorrrrrrrrr_... 

Toptunov begins to sing along, his words trailing noticeably behind the recording.

— Leonid. 

— _Smoooooooth... operator_...

— Oh, ho ho. _Leonid_. — Stolyarchuk, who has been watching the scene unfold with lazy interest, does an uncanny imitation of Akimov's annoyed tone. 

— He's in trouble now, isn't he? — Kirschenbaum waggles his eyebrows. 

— Thank you both for that insightful commentary. — Akimov shoots them an irritated look. Then, softer but insistent, to Toptunov. — Shall we go? _Lenya_.

Leonid looks up at him with those big eyes of his and Sasha steels himself for more arguments in favor of staying.

— If it's time to go — Toptunov raises his palms in a gesture of surrender — It's time to go. 

He gives the table a hearty slap and moves to stand up, somewhat unsteady on his feet. — Time to call it a night, eh, lads?

He bows and turns toward Akimov. — Ready, Sasha?

Akimov raises an eyebrow. After a moment, he nods his goodbyes toward his colleagues. Stolyarchuk wishes them a safe journey. 

— D'you think it's stopped raining? — Kirschenbaum wonders aloud, looking at no one in particular.

Smoothing out the pleats of his coat, Akimov leads their way out of the establishment. Toptunov ambles in his wake, still humming to the beat of the song.

They push through the door to the outside. It is still drizzling. 

Akimov glances at his watch and immediately wipes the drops of moisture. — I'm afraid we are well past the last bus.

Next to him, Toptunov arches backward and closes his eyes.

— Leonid.

Toptunov opens his mouth to catch the rain drops.

— Did you hear what I said?

— Yeah, yeah. — Toptunov closes his mouth and turns to look at him. — We've a walk ahead of us. I got that.

Akimov doesn't _hrmph_ but he sure does _look_ it. He sets off to cross the street, and Toptunov scrambles to follow.

It's not long before Sasha becomes thoroughly irritated by the incessant drizzle. As they cut across a wide stretch of grass, he stands up the collar of his jacket.

— Sasha.

— What.

Toptunov chuckles. — You are like a turtle, Sasha.

— I am _not_ a turtle. — Akimov fires back and quickens his step.

— But you are! — Toptunov calls after him, jogging to catch up.

— Well then, you're a.... a goose. A _horrible_ goose.

— Me, a goose? 

— You can drop the act, you know.

— What act? 

He sounds innocent enough.

Akimov gives him a sidelong glance. For a minute or two, silence accompanies the sloshing of their shoes across the wet grass.

— Alright, alright. — Toptunov raises his arms to surrender yet again. — So I did play it up a bit.

— Mhm. I knew it.

Akimov suspects that Stolyarchuk may have seen through Toptunov's drunken act as well.

— Makes it easier, doesn't it? 

— Makes what easier?

Toptunov slides his hands into his pockets. 

— Gives you an excuse, I mean. To take care of your inexperienced _junior colleague_. One who clearly overestimated his ability to partake in the spirits.

Akimov snorts. — _Junior_ colleague. At long last, you're using your youth to your advantage.

— I sure get enough grief over it. — Toptunov sighs before a rush of wind forces them both into silence.

They each curl into their jackets as the rain begins smiting them with renewed vigor.

  


* * *

  


At the entrance to his block Akimov turns, and Toptunov can't help but hold his breath. 

_This is it_. 

He will either have to march in the dark and the cold and the rain, all the way to the dormitory and his narrow bunk bed, or...

 _Will he invite me up?_

The question, rephrased somewhat, has been vexing Akimov as soon as they stepped out of the tavern. Should he invite him up? He has done it before, after all. Not too often, so as not to arouse the neighbors' suspicions. 

Doubts begin to gnaw at him. Junior colleague, isn't that what Leonid said? A workplace relationship. It is... well, it's _in_ appropriate.

 _The whole damn thing is inappropriate_ , he reminds himself. 

And yet.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't want Toptunov to come upstairs. To spend the night, together. To wake up at the crack of dawn and make tea for them both. To sit at the kitchen table, smoking his morning cigarette as they skim and comment on the headlines from yesterday's newspaper.

 _You can't want that_. 

It isn't proper. It isn't... safe. He turns toward Leonid, fully committed to wish him goodnight and send him on his way.

— Sasha?

There he stands, completely soaked. 

_What did I call him earlier, a goose?_

He looks more like a drenched chicken.

Locks of hair, wet and flattened against his forehead. Drops of rain collecting on the tip his nose. His mustache not quite hiding the fact that he's biting his lip, the way he always does, when he's unsure or nervous. Jacket unbuttoned, and lapels of his shirt twisted enough to reveal his obscene collarbone.

But it's the eyes that do Sasha in. Those large eyes that say 

_let me stay with you_

and plead 

_don't make me go_. 

And that collarbone, of course.

Still, he pretends not to be taken in by that look of a puppy that has been cast out into a storm. Turning back toward the entrance, he motions Toptunov to follow, and after a beat, grunts. — Come on then. Let's get out of this damned rain.

  


* * *

  


Inside Sasha's flat, Toptunov doesn't dare move past the doormat. Shifting from one foot to the other, he is careful to not to drip water on the parquet. 

Akimov, on the other hand, springs into action. He ducks inside the smaller of the two rooms, then beckons Leonid to follow him into the bathroom handing him a towel, and some sleeping clothes.

— Good, good. — Sasha touches the side of the boiler and seems satisfied with its temperature.

— You turned the boiler on, before heading out tonight?

Akimov takes off his glasses and wipes them on the edge of his shirt. — I happen to prefer a nighttime bath routine.

— Don't use it all up. — He adds, before disappearing in the doorway.

Toptunov frowns. As the door shuts behind him, he wonders if Sasha is displeased by his being here. 

Not more than five minutes later, he is vigorously drying himself off with the offered towel. Sasha's bedtime clothes hang a bit loose on his lanky frame. He flashes a sheepish smile at himself in the mirror, then fastens the drawstring on the pyjama bottoms.

Opening the door, he calls out. — All yours.

Sasha takes the sight of him, hair all mussed up, and skin pink from the shower, wearing _his_ pyjamas. 

— Done already? — His voice hitches a little, but Toptunov doesn't notice.

— Still enough water to run your nighttime bath, if you like.

Sasha cocks an eyebrow at him. 

— The bed's made. — He points toward the day room, and disappears in the bathroom.

 _Day room_ , of course. 

Toptunov has only had the honor of sleeping in Sasha's own bed _once_. 

He steps inside the day room, and sits down on the very edge of the rolled out sofa-bed, thinking back to that fateful night.

Recalling the current that had been crackling between the two of them all throughout the shift, he admits, _I was a bit cheeky that night, wasn't I?_

So much so that Kirschenbaum, who on most nights does his best to disguise his drowsing by propping up his head and pretending to study turbine manuals, was shooting curious glances between the two of them. 

Stolyarchuk's mustache wasn't big enough to hide his smirk.

After the shift, Toptunov remembers exchanging only one look with Sasha in the locker room. _I am coming home with you_ , he told him without words, without thinking, without the slightest regard for the consequences.

Sasha didn't reply, not exactly. But he didn't say a word when the bus went past the junior plant workers' dormitories, either. 

Toptunov took it to mean that he was in agreement, his assumption only reinforced when Sasha didn't question his getting off at the same bus stop as him. He followed Sasha up the stairs and into his flat, and things proceeded rather quickly, one might say _haphazardly_ from there on.

But ever since then, it's been the day room whenever he had the privilege to grace Sasha's flat. _Bedroom too private, too intimate for Sasha?_

Before he can mull over the question properly, the bathroom door reopens. 

— I hung up your wet clothes. Hopefully, they will be dry by morning. 

— Thank you. 

Toptunov hopes he sounds sincere even if his reply is somewhat clipped.

Akimov reaches out to turn off the lights, then clambers over him toward the wall. A few moments later he pulls him into a familiar embrace, the hairs of his mustache tickling Leonid's neck.

Toptunov gets an idea then.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he twists around and whispers. — Turn around, Sasha.

— What?

— Turn over. I want to be the big spoon.

— The big what?

Toptunov bites back mild frustration.

— Turn _over_ and I'll show you.

He props himself above Sasha, motioning him toward the space he has just vacated. When they both slip back under the covers he leans closer. Sasha is warm, as usual, whether he's behind him or in front of him.

— This is different. — Akimov whispers. 

Toptunov runs his hand along Sasha's side, all the way up to his arm, snaking alongside it until he reaches his wrists and twines their fingers.

— Good-different or bad-different? — He buries his cheek in Sasha's hair.

— Good... different. — Akimov says, after a while. 

They ponder the difference in silence.

  


* * *

  


He doesn't remember dozing off, but sometime during the night, Toptunov awakens with a start.

Immediately, he realizes two things. 

First, he is incredibly hard. Second, he is rutting into Akimov's behind. 

Waves of embarrassment and panic wash over him. Any second now, Sasha will surely wake and demand to know why he is interrupting his sleep, and _what the hell is he doing?_

Toptunov presses his lips and wills his hips to be as still as possible, no matter how _good it feels_ , and–

That is when a _third_ realization dawns on him.

He isn't moving his hips. At all.

Yet, his full mast is still enjoying the repeated friction delivered by the grinding action against his bedmate's buttocks.

How is this even possible...

_Sasha?_

A soft, contented sigh escapes Akimov's lightly parted lips. Despite the rather vigorous activity his body is performing, he seems to be soundly asleep.

Toptunov turns rigid. He withdraws himself toward the wall, but the motion only encourages Akimov to apply more vigor to his movements. Toptunov gathers the courage to say something, to react.

— S-sash- _aaungh_... — He whisper-whines, a little too loud for his liking, just as Sasha's energetic buttocks hit a particularly frictious angle shooting a jolt of pleasure directly into his brain.

In the leisurely seconds that follow, Akimov stills, gradually. Echoes of his repeated movements soften and fade into the tangle of bedspreads covering them. 

Still turned away, he swallows, loud enough for Toptunov to hear. After what feels like eternity, comes the carefully measured whisper.

— Leonid?

Toptunov holds his breath. 

_Don't answer. Keep still. Pretend you're asleep_.

Save Sasha the embarrassment. 

_It's what he would want, isn't?_

A little rebellion sparks inside of him. 

— Hm? — He whispers back, putting on an innocent air. — Alright, Sasha?

— Ah, you're awake.

— Yeah. You kind of... woke me. — Toptunov aims for a light, amused tone.

As Sasha ponders how to respond, Toptunov rewinds his thoughts. _It's what he would want, isn't?_

_What he would want..._

Before he can fully appreciate their potential effect, a string of words wells up inside him, like steam puffing from underneath a kettle lid. 

— Is there something you want, Sasha?

Silence and stillness are his only answer.

Toptunov stares at the back of Sasha's head, but inside of his own mind he is standing in front of a precipice. A precipice not entirely of his own making, but one he has crept closer to by uttering the question.

Sasha remains silent, the stubborn turtle that he is.

Toptunov decides to cast the bait one more time.

— Is there something... you _need?_ — He whispers directly in his ear, in what he hopes to be his most enticing tone. — _Saahsha_.

Akimov groans and twitches, sending his backside slamming right at the tip of Toptunov's erection, who in turn lets a moan escape and suddenly it is a vicious circle of who is turning whom on—

— T-top drawer. — Akimov waves in the direction of the night stand, sounding short of breath. 

He follows up with a strained whisper of — _Vaseline_ — like it's utterly obvious what he's after, when Leonid doesn't move, at least not fast enough for his liking.

Toptunov jumps to action then. Scrambling over Sasha, he lands one foot then the other on the cold parquet floor. 

_Night stand. Right._

He staggers to his left, toward the entryway to the anteroom, reaching for the night stand drawer handle and feeling a bit like he is still dreaming. The drawer opens with an indignant squeak and Toptunov rummages through its contents in the semi-darkness.

Meanwhile, Sasha is turning and twisting in the sheets.

— What're you doing? — Toptunov pauses to whisper, before his nimble fingers finally close around the lid of a jar that _feels_ promising.

— What does it _look_ like I'm doing? — Sasha chuffs out. — I'm preparing myself. 

— Prepa– 

The word dies on Leonid's lips, unfinished. Truly, he is facing a precipice, because this is _new_ and _different_ and most definitely not how things have worked up until this point.

But he has always trusted Sasha.

And he has always let him take the lead. 

From the very beginning of their... _whatever_ it is that they have. Relations. Because, why not? He is already his foreman, at work. Why not let him take charge elsewhere, particularly in an area where Leonid has had rather limited experience.

— Have you got the–

— Vaseline — Toptunov attempts to cover a nervous squeak by clearing his throat. — Yes.

He leans down to plant a quick kiss on Sasha's temple, as he scrambles back onto the bed. Sasha's pyjama bottoms already conveniently slid halfway down, legs splayed.

 _Okay_.

 _Okay_.

— I'm ready. — Sasha whisper-announces with typical solemnity.

Toptunov takes in the sight of him. _So this is what Sasha has to contend with every time we–_

— Smear some vaseline on yourself. And me. — Sasha instructs, sounding every bit as patient as he does in the control room.

Gratitude braided with resentment courses through Toptunov's heart, just as he becomes acutely aware of the weight of the jar in his hand. It's mighty good of Sasha to provide direction, but at the same time it feels a bit, well, _patronizing_. He slathers his cock with the jelly a little too quickly, haphazardly, trying his best not to sulk. 

His fingers tremble when he reaches for Sasha's opening. 

_This is it_.

— Middle finger works best — Sasha offers. 

Toptunov rolls his eyes, but obliges, burying his finger, tenuously at first, then deeper, and oh it is hot and tight and–

Sasha exhales. 

Then moans, and demands. — Mo-ore.

— More... what?

— More fingers.

Toptunov thinks for a moment, then decides on the index finger as the best candidate. He slides it in. And out.

In. And out. In. And out.

— More — whines Sasha after a while, twisting his face toward the pillow.

Leonid adds in the ring finger, shaping the three into an upside down triangle. Sasha's breath quickens. In between watching his face for signs of distress, Toptunov tries to keep the movement steady, almost languid. _I am in control of this_ , he thinks, with a rising note of excitement.

— Curl it — Sasha instructs. — Curl the fingers.

 _Still calling the shots, eh, Sasha_. His excitement evaporates a little, only to be replaced with tenderness as Sasha begins to writhe in pleasure below him.

— There, _there_. — Akimov whisper-shouts.

— What? Where?

— Just. Keep. Doing. Wha- _ah_. You're. Doing. — Sasha's murmurs spill out like a drum beat.

Furrowing his brow, Toptunov strains to repeat his movements and angles as closely as he can, but he is rudely interrupted when Sasha grabs at his shirt and pulls him in for a kiss.

— Was that–

— Good. Great. You did good. — Akimov punctuates his reassurances with another kiss. His face glistens with sweat in the dim light.

Toptunov swoops in for his own series of kisses.

— Ready for the main course? 

_Cheeky, Leonid_. He awards himself a couple of points.

— Are you?

 _Damn_. 

Toptunov looks toward Sasha's eyes and instantly becomes locked into his steady, thoughtful gaze. It dawns on him finally that Sasha's question isn't mocking at all. It's serious. And filled with Sasha-typical amount of concern.

— Yeah — he answers softly. — I am.

Later, he will remember it as if it were a dream.

Not because it feels unreal – the opposite, really – but because time itself slows and stretches into infinity. Allowing Sasha to lift his right leg and hook it over his shoulder, Toptunov becomes aware of many things at once.

The refrigerator and the boiler seem to be having an opaque exchange, almost a conversation, of varying hums and creaks. 

A neighbor's coughing booms next door, and Toptunov learns once more that the walls in Sasha's block are just as paper-thin as the walls at his dormitory. _Bit disappointing, really_. He was rather looking forward to the day he was assigned his own flat. 

Outside, beyond the veil of pattering rain, a dog – or an errant wolf, maybe – howls out a scathing review of tonight's weather.

Propping himself with his left arm, Toptunov aligns his cock with the right toward Sasha's opening. When he pushes in, Sasha is unable to stop a gasp. — Ss–

— Slow, I know. You needn't worry, Sa- _uh_ –

His words halt into a grunt. Millimeter by millimeter, he drives forward, biting back a muffled cry. Sasha's warmth is all-enveloping, binding him, drawing his mind into a tight corner of pleasure.

— F-fuck. — He inhales sharply, suddenly aware he's been holding his breath. — Fuuuh-huh- _ck_. Sasha.

— Articulate tonight — Sasha notes dryly. — Aren't you, Leonid?

A bead of sweat materializes on Toptunov's forehead and begins its uneven trek downward, toward his nose. He sinks down, resting his head against Sasha's. 

— You feel _so_ good. So good. — He lets out a moan. — Sasha.

They're breath to breath now, lips and teeth mingling.

— Yes, quite.

Something that could pass for a smirk blooms on Akimov's face. Toptunov catches that twitch of the lips.

— How d'you do it, hm? — He wonders out loud. — How d'you always stay in control?

Sasha's eyes darken. — Move... before I lose it.

On that cue, Toptunov rolls back his hips and begins to thrust. Gently at first, then with more and more gusto. With the third or fourth thrust, the plan crystallizes in his mind. A plot to Sasha's undoing.

For a whole minute, there is nothing but the rise and fall of their labored breathing. No more neighborly coughing fits. No dog-wolves. Even the rain has faded. Toptunov's whole world writhes in front of him, luxuriating in the pain and pleasure of his fullness and friction. 

Watching Sasha intoxicates him. His senses, already heightened by the exquisite tourniquet of Sasha's passage, are hijacked by his every moan and whine, every little slip of control. If Toptunov is not careful, it will be his own undoing, not Sasha's.

 _Fuck_. 

He needs to focus on task at hand. Keep adjusting the angle, find Sasha's _there, there_. 

Wait a minute. Hand? 

He reaches for Sasha's neglected member, eliciting a hiss and the softest, neediest of moans. _Good going, Leonid_. He rewards himself with a particularly deep thrust and it feels _good_ , oh _so good_. So divine, in fact, that he's starting to feel the earliest rumblings of a climax. His own.

 _Damn it_. 

Toptunov's rhythm becomes erratic. He tries to think of anything – anything at all – that could stave off his release, give him the time to bring Sasha to the brink. 

But his world is condensed to this very room, their tangle of sheets, and a delectably disheveled Sasha panting below. _Imagine him looking like that at work_ , he muses. 

Work, yes. Think of work.

In his mind's eye, he settles for recalling his manuals and all the blasted acronyms contained therein. 

_ZGIS_... _MOVTO_... The pressure in his groin lets up. It's working. _BShchU_... _VVER_... 

Akimov's voice reaches him as if from behind a thick veil. 

— Water-water energetic reactor? Did you just–

 _Oh, no_. Leonid freezes mid-thrust.

— Fuck. Don't stop. Lenya.

Before Toptunov can think up an excuse for his slip-up, Sasha issues a string of expletives, now panting with abandon. All Toptunov has the presence of mind to do is restart his enthusiastic thrusts.

As Akimov reaches his release, the spasms send shocks all the way to Leonid's cock. He finally lets go of what little control he has left. 

— Sa–

— Lenya.

Several grunts and moans later, Toptunov collapses on top of Sasha, and they melt into one another. 

He lays his cheek down against Sasha's, and closes his eyes just as his heart is overcome with emotion. Triumphant that his plan succeeded, but also filled with tenderness. He swallows, as if he could push it all down and back from whence it came.

Something hot and wet drops and rolls right into the corner of Sasha's eye, stinging him lightly.

— You're not... — Akimov is kind enough to leave the word _crying_ out. — Are you?

— M-my eyes are just sweaty. — Toptunov mumbles in response.

They lie in silence, until Toptunov realizes with a start that Sasha is probably not at all comfortable supporting his weight. He rolls over, then looks up at the ceiling, gaze unfocused.

Turning toward him, Akimov touches and trails Leonid's jawline. 

— I'm not even going to ask what that VVER thing was about.

A ghost of a smile passes through Toptunov's face. It is followed by a grimace, and a sniff. 

— It's better that you don't.

  


* * *

  


When they've gotten themselves cleaned up, Toptunov settles his chin into the crook of Sasha's neck, planting a light kiss.

— Why didn't you tell me before? 

Sasha twitches, but the question lingers between them unanswered.

— Were you afraid — Toptunov presses on, in a whisper — to ask for what you wanted? Embarrassed, maybe?

Akimov shakes his head.

— Did you think I would like it too much, that–

Another wordless denial.

— Or maybe — Toptunov hesitates. He feels a sting somewhere in his chest, even before he decides to go forward with his speculation. — Maybe you thought I'd do a terrible job of it. That I can't be trusted to–

— No. 

Sasha turns sharply. — I would never...

— Then why? — Toptunov props his head on his elbow, never taking his eyes off of him. — Why not tell me?

Sasha bites his lips.

— Sometimes you tell me that I talk too much. — Leonid continues, unable to keep shades of resentment from coloring his voice. — Maybe it's you who doesn't talk enough.

The words drift between them, like a gust of cold air.

— You're right. — Sasha says finally. He's careful to keep his tone even, and not make it seem like he's just indulging Leonid. — I should have... shared that with you.

It's Toptunov's turn to stay silent.

— Let me ask you something, Lenya. Who am I, to you?

Toptunov takes a moment to consider.

— You're Sasha — he declares, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. — My friend, my mentor. My lover. — His voice wavers just a bit around that last one. — And my shift foreman — he adds quickly — but I try not to think about that one too much.

— Right. That's... that's rather a lot, don't you think?

Having said that, Akimov turns his gaze toward the ceiling.

— I want to do right by you, Leonid. I really do. As a friend and mentor. As a lover... and as foreman, too.

— I'm not saying that you–

— I should have said something. — Sasha pinches the bridge of his nose. 

Toptunov bites back whatever it is at the tip of his tongue and waits for him to continue.

— Listen, I... — Sasha begins and fades for a moment. — My first... relationships. — He lets out a sigh. — Mistakes were made. Some by me. Some by others. 

He turns to look at him. — I don't want those... mistakes to be part of _this_.

He waves a little circle above them, as if binding them together. Toptunov thinks he understands.

— So you're holding back.

— I'm holding back. — Sasha admits.

— You're _curating_ my experience.

— W-what?

— Sasha. You've been nothing short of amazing. — Toptunov waves his left arm to emphasize his point. — But you can't treat me like some sort of _experiment_. 

— I'm not–

— We are both going to make mistakes. _I_ am going to make mistakes. You are going to make mistakes. We are not going to get everything right.

Before he can protest, Leonid puts a finger on Sasha's lips.

— And that's fine — he reassures him. — We will work through it. Together.

— Alright, Leonid. Alright. — Sasha's words tickle his finger as he speaks. — I promise, I won't be withholding things from you.

Toptunov leans down and whispers in his ear, putting on his most sensual voice. — I will hold you to that promise.

— Oh, no.

— Oh, no?

— You're going to be insufferable in the morning, aren't you?

— Not at all, I will–

— Sing. Or even worse–

— Make you breakfast.

— _Whistle_.

— No whistling whatsover. I swear to you.

Akimov acknowledges the promise with a _hrmph_ and nestles his arm under the pillow. Toptunov lies back down and closes his eyes.

Of course he will make him breakfast. He wonders what ingredients Sasha might have in his cupboards, or the refrigerator. Should he plan to wake up early and nip out for groceries? How about a loaf of freshly baked bread and some lard with pork bits... He licks his lips, imagining the still-warm slice loaded with a thick spread. 

Next to him, Sasha's breath becomes even, rhythmical in the way his chest rises and falls. 

_He's already fallen asleep._

Leonid turns, as quietly as he can so as not to disturb him. Then, in a barest of whispers, he croons to himself. 

— _Smooth operator_...

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> The title, of course, comes by way of Sade's 1984 hit. 
> 
> Check out this stunning [live performance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0yI78cFeVs). (No, really, you should watch it.)


End file.
